Those Lonely Nights
by It's-Teatime-Somewhere
Summary: Sherlock has a nightmare after a night of drugs. How will John help him and what is this story of Sherlock's past? Rated for drug usage and minor swearing. Disclaimer: don't own


**A/N: Hello there, welcome to my intro to the Sherlock fandom! It's my first finished piece, although I have tons of unfnished ones :). Anyway, some quick things: One, this rating is purely for drug usage and some language. It isn't clean enough (in my mind) for a T but I don't consider it crazy explicit. Second, any drug information I get incorrect (prices and symptoms) remember that I did no reaserch and got all of my information from friends and other stories :) Third, it's un-beta'd so excuse any mistakes (but if you point them out that would be great!) **

**Hope you enjoy, and remember, reviews are what keep me writing! :D**

John knows he doesn't do it often, but when he does it is quite a bit. It is usually the same, got out to a supplier, get a large amount of drugs, mostly Xanex, take them until he passed out, wake up and put it all behind him. John never asks questions, it is always just one of his odd habits. Now, John begins to care.

It happens on a dark night in February. There was a case at the Yard that Sherlock had messed up, and with Anderson being a bastard as usual, there wasn't much John could do to stop it. Sherlock could outwit him even under the influence of just about anything. But this time, as Sherlock sits on the couch taking pill after pill, John can't help but wish he could do something. He knows he has to, but he doesn't know what.

Soon enough, John sees Sherlock's body sink into the cushions, his hand going limp by his side. John rushes over and grabs the pills out of the pale palm. Then, it's just an issue of getting Sherlock to bed. John knows how much Sherlock hates waking up on the sofa, so he makes an effort to get him into his room.

It takes all of John's army strength to pick up the man, who is a lot heavier than his lean frame suggested, but eventually John manages to collect him in his arms and kick open the door to Sherlock's room.

As he manuvers his way towards the bed, John looked at the room that is bathed in moonlight. He sees bookshelves covering all of the walls draped in trinkets and beakers. The books are stacked haphazaredly among the furniture, which itself was very scarce. There is a double bed in the corner, pushed away as if sleeping was second to anything else.

The most human part of the room is a small picture frame on a desk covered in papers. In the frame was the portrait of a man who seemed to be thirty or thirty-five years old. He wears a suit and had a stern face with gelled-back hair. Overall, he is a very austure-looking man, and John can only wonder why his face was in Sherlocks private sanctum. Standing next to him is a woman, whose face had a calm sort of elegance. She has curly, dark hair that falls in waves with the same cheekbones as Sherlock. She seems more kind, yet still had a cold look about her. John assumes that these are his parents, and, considering how he doesn't know anything about Sherlock's past, he makes a plan to get information about it when Sherlock was better.

John lies Sherlock on the bed, his arms glad for the relief. He begins to pull up some blankets around the tall man, and is about to leave when he feels a hand grasp his wrist.

"John..." Sherlock murmurs, tugging at John's sleeve, "stay..."

"What do you want, Sherlock?" John tries to keep his tone soothing and calm, hoping it will lull Sherlock back into his stupor.

Sherlock pats the area next to him with his free hand, although it is more of a flailing arm. "Stay here. Right here..."

"Okay, I will." John then sits down on the bed, swinging his legs up so he was lying on his back, about a foot away from Sherlock. However, that foot soon dissapears as Sherlock grabs John's arm, flipping him over so they are face to face, so close John can feel the hot breath on his cheek. Sherlock puts his arms around John, holding him in place rather protectivly, as if he would never let the shorter man go. John would have protested, but he found he rather like it. He had never really had romantic feelings for his flatmate, but all of those thoughts were quickly flying out the window as he felt Sherlock's steady breaths. John finds that he is very happy right where he is, and soon falls into a calming sleep.

Halfway through the night, John awakes to shouts.

"No, no! Don't go, please! Please stay...please!" Sherlock seems to cry. His arms are flailing about and he has a trickle of tears running down his face. "Stop! I...please! Stop it! _Stay!"_ The last word is said with such anxiety it almost breaks John's heart. He quickly reaches over and grasped Sherlocks shoulders, effectivly holding him upright.

"Shh...Sherlock. It's okay. I'm here." With those words, Sherlock launches himself into John's arms, burying his head in John's shoulder. John tries to ignore the shuddering sobs that rack his body, instead focusing on making small circles in the detective's back. After a few minutes of whispering soothing murmurs into his ear, Sherlock pulls back a bit, wiping away some of the first tears John had ever seen him shed.

"Want to talk?" John whispers, catching a teardrop as it fell off the pale chin.

Sherlock just shakes his head, as John expects him to. "It's not important."

"Sherlock," John says as calmly as he can, "You've just had a nightmare after a huge drug intake. I think those Xanex have triggered some memory, and it's clearly bothering you. Why can't you tell me?"

Sherlock just shakes his head again, still with a childish innocence, as if he doesn't want to admit something is wrong.

"Sherlock, it's just me. You can tell me, right?"

Finally, Sherlock looks back up and gives a heaving sigh.

"I was fourteen when he left. It was two years after the Carl Powers case, and I had just discovered my love of solving crimes." Sherlock begins, delving into a tale of his past.

_It was around midnight and Sherlock couldn't sleep. So, as normal, he flicked on the desklamp and picked up a copy of one of the Hardy Boys books. Usually he hated detective books, but those crimes were so simple to solve that they were like a nice holiday away from his crazy brain.. About halfway through the book he heard more shouting._

_"It's your fault, you know, your fault that he's so fucking messed up!" He heard his father shout. Father never shouted around Sherlock and Myc, but when they went to bed he raised his bellowing voice._

_"How can you say that?" Mummy cried in return. Sherlock knew when Mummy was crying because her voice got all clotted and sticky._

_"It's the truth, and you know it! Sometimes I don't even know why I stay, Arlene. This family is fucked up, and there seems to be no point to it."_

_"You don't mean that. You love Sherlock too," Mummy continued, her normally elegant demeanor failing._

_"Like hell I do. The kid is a weird one, and we all know who is to blame for it."_

_"Jim, you're drunk. Can we put this to rest? Stay for me. Stay because you love me."_

_"That's the thing, Arls, I don't. Well, not enough to replace the disdain I have for those idiots." Sherlock heard the clips as Father locked his suitcase. He heard Mummy sobbing too, and knew he needed to do something. This time was different than the others. There was something more._

_He jumped out of bed, threw open the door, and rushed down the gigantic spiral staircase into the main hall. He saw Father surrounded by three suitcases and Mummy sitting at his feet._

_"Father, what are you doing!" Sherlock shouted, trying to seem strong. He needed to prove to Father he wasn't weird, wasn't weak._

_"Go away, Sherlock. This doesn't concern you."_

_"Yes it does! Don't hurt Mummy! Don't leave us!" Sherlock used everything he knew to try and persuade his father._

_"But Sherlock, this is all your fault." Father got up and walked over to him, giving Sherlock a scary smile. "You brought this on yourself with your odd deductions and overactive memory. You broke Mummy. Blame no one but yourself for these troubles." With one last wink, he gathered his bags and walked out the huge door, never to come back._

_"Mummy." Sherlock rushed over to Mummy, who just pushed him away._

_"Go back to sleep, Lockie. Myc will be home for holiday tomorrow, and you'll want some rest. Mummy's tired also. Can you do that for me?"_

_Sherlock nodded, feeling tears begin to bubble over. "Mummy, is what Father said true? Am I odd?"_

_Mummy sighed. "Go to sleep, Lockie. We can talk tomorrow." Sherlock noticed how she avoided the question._

_Mummy picked herself up and smoothed out her crumpled dressing gown. With a wave, She waltzed off to her rooms, leaving Sherlock to carry himself up the stairs to his room. However, as he began to leave, he saw a small piece of paper sitting on the ground where Father had just left from._

_"Remember, to care is to destroy. You tried and failed. Maybe if you had made fewer mistakes, I could have called you a son."_

_Sherlock crumpled up the piece of paper, feeling the hot tears roll down his cheeks. How could it be that his own father didn't love him? It must have been all his fault. All of the fights and anger was all because of him. He'd hurt Mummy and Father and probably Myc too. He needed to leave. Maybe, just maybe, if he left they would be happy. _

_Love, Sherlock decided, was overrated, and an apathetic life would be better as it was free of the heartache and guilt._

_That was the night Sherlock packed his bags and left Holmes Manor. He traveled around the country, finding work when he could and reading wehn he couldn't. It was a lonely life, but at least he knew he couldn't hurt anyone anymore._

Sherlock stops and takes a shuddering breath. John doesn't say anything, but holds Sherlock a bit tighter. He'd had his fair share of problems at home, mostly with Harry, but some with his parents. He knows what it feels like to want to be loved, and be appreciated.

"And the drugs?" John whispers, thinking that this is as good a time as any to bring it up.

"Yes, the drugs." Sherlock breathes once more.

_He found drugs about five years after leaving. He was in Manchester, visiting the University to see if he could find a job. _

_It was late, and the day had been sad if anything. He was walking through some of the backstreets when he came across a man about three years his senior._

_"Hey, mate, need some shit? Fifty pounds for three grams." He couldn't see the face, but it sounded soft and velvety._

_"What kind?" He tried to sound cool, as if he knew what he was doing. He knew that the man was a drug dealer, but he had never had any drugs before. Simply, he had never needed them. There was no boredom to be felt at Holmes Manor, as there was always things to do. But now, now he needed it._

_"Ah, newbie. Well, you might want to try with something a little easier." The druggie put away the small package and pulled out a plastic bag filled with three white pills._

_"Xanex, simple depressant. Gets rid of the anxiety in your life. And, since you're new, I'll give it to you for fourty pounds."_

_Sherlock thought that sounded like a good deal, so he pulled out some cash he had snatched from other people and earned from odd jobs and took the pills. _

_That was the first time. He slowly moved on to stronger stuff, but the Xanex always brought back the nostalgic memories of those first months. Whenever he took them, the horrid times would visit his mind, making whatever problem he was facing seem less important. _

John can't do anything but look at Sherlock as he finishes his story. He could never have imagined such a story, and one told in such a broken tone at that.

"So I'm a high-functioning sociopath, married to my work. Because work doesn't break your heart." Sherlock continues in a monotonus voice.

That's when John loses it, and he sees Sherlock does as well. Sherlock collapses into John's arms once more. Both men sharing the grief tha bonds them together in that dark room. John holds Sherlock, who seems smaller than ever, as tightly as he can, trying to pull Sherlock's grief into his own body, wanting so badly to just make it all go away.

They sit like that for a long time, Sherlock nearly in John's lap, curled upon him. After Sherlock is out of tears and they sit in silence. Soon, Sherlock brings his face away from the jumper to look John in the eye.

"John, I-" he stutters, seemingly out of words.

"No, it's okay, Sherlock. I understand." John doesn't want Sherlock to feel awkward, and he knows it is hard for Sherlock to talk about his weakness. Sherlock is always untouchable. He is above the world and mundane things such as feelings. This is the first time Sherlock seems to come down to earth, and that itself scares John more than anything.

"No, John, I...these feelings..it's all new...and, and I don't know how-"

John hates, _hates_ seeing Sherlock so vulnerable, so he does the only thing he can think of. He gently pulls Sherlock's head towards his and their lips meet. The kiss is simple, just a chaste meeting of the lips, but John tries to give Sherlock a sense of peace and serenity with it. He soon feels Sherlock's hands make their way through his hair and pushed deeper into Sherlocks lips.

They break apart and he sees Sherlock smiling.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispers.

"Can you promise me you won't do them again, the drugs? They can't be good for you," John pleads.

Sherlock just looks at him for a long time. It seems to be a mental battle of persistance, both sides trying to win. Finally, John decides to move the battle along.

"Sherlock, do it for me, because _I care about you_." His tone is soft, but his words are the most meaningful. He has a pretty good idea that those four words haven't been said to Sherlock very often, so they carry even more weight.

Sherlock just looks at him, staring deep into the soft, brown eyes, trying to find some lie, as if he doesn't believe John. Eventually, however, Sherlock sees the truth so he smiles again, giving John one last, chaste kiss.

The two fall back onto the bed, still wrapped in each others arms. They then fall asleep, Sherlock's nightmares gone for the night.

Neither mentioned the previous night when they wake, but they will share small glances from now on, and each night will bring more comfort for both.

And Sherlock never does drugs again. He has found his life again, and doesn't need anything to take it away.


End file.
